A Better Kind of Pain
by barefeet01
Summary: (1) Add one sixteen-year-old girl, one snarky Potions Master, and two troubled lives. (2) Mix well over high heat, stirring counterclockwise. (3) Prepare for small explosion. Possible trigger warning.
1. Chapter 1

She'd never meant to be seen.

All she'd wanted was to breathe, to make a hairline fracture in her skin just wide enough to let her lungs expand. To peel back the masks and the makeup and the lies and stare at the one thing that marked her as a normal girl. To swirl her finger red, bring it to her lips, and taste pennies.

No, she'd certainly never wanted to be seen. Because what came next? What came next changed everything.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione Granger was not the kind of girl one might call "impulsive." As Gryffindor's female prefect, she prided herself on upholding a rigid code of conduct. This code included many things, among them her attention to detail, her perseverance, and her quest for perfection. But the first tenet of Hermione's code was self-control, and it was this, her most-valued principle, that Hermione was violating now.

This thought had crossed her mind exactly once since her footsteps had re-directed themselves towards the seventh floor. Outside the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy they'd slowed as Hermione had pivoted on the spot and begun to pace. As she'd shut her eyes and asked for a quiet spot to do something she wasn't supposed to do, she'd felt a brief pang of remorse. But as she turned for the third time and the Room of Requirement creaked into existence, she dismissed the thought. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her robes and fingering her second-favorite razor blade, she squared her shoulders and walked through the door.

The brightest witch of her age, reduced to this - pressed against the rough stone floor of the castle, one hand over her eyes and one gripping the blade. She'd already removed her school robes and yanked down her jeans, knowing as she did that marks on her thighs would be much easier to hide. _Not the brightest witch of her age for nothing, then_, she thought bitterly, clenching her fist in anger.

The bite of the razor blade into her palm elicited a sharp gasp of pain, and Hermione dropped her gaze and watched the viscous red liquid curl down her fingers and unfurl onto the floor.

As she watched her blood decorate the uneven stones beneath her, Hermione felt herself beginning to relax for the first time since she'd boarded the Hogwarts Express after her O.W.L.s. And although it was her first night back and she needed to be at the Welcoming Feast, at that moment Hermione was powerless. Trapped in the spell of her own blood, hearing only her heartbeat, Hermione caressed the blade lovingly and dipped towards her skin.

One perfect parallel line became two, and without conscious thought Hermione added a third, a fourth, a fifth, more, until the top of her left thigh was a constellation, the angry slashes dotted through with bright pinpricks of blood. Still holding the blade poised against her skin, Hermione grazed her fingertips over her handiwork, eyes shut and mouth parted, like a blind girl reading the Braille of her triumphs and mistakes.

So drunk with her own power was she, so lost in the fog of her own creation, that Hermione might not have noticed had her half-giant friend Hagrid lumbered into the room. Merlin, she probably wouldn't even have looked up had it been one of the gamekeeper's pets – with the state she was in, Hermione might've absently patted Fluffy on one of his noses before shooing him away. All things considered, the slight man before her was really almost too easy to overlook. But then –

"My, my, my, Miss Granger. Up to something, are we?"

The dry, sibilant tone of the Potions Master echoed across the room.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sir!" She gasped. "I, I, I was just –"

He raised his eyebrows, and the lines etched in between bore testament to his censure. Hermione realized at once the futility of making excuses, and she bowed her head.

"I'll hurry along, then," she murmured, tugging her robes back into place as she pushed herself off the floor. "Can't be late for the Welcoming Feast!" The forced brightness of her voice was betrayed by her treacherous body. Light-headed, she swayed.

A pale, spidery hand reached out to steady her, and Hermione flinched in surprise as it caught her shoulder.

"Excuses can be made for the feast, Miss Granger."

Her mouth fell open. Twice in the span of a minute, this dour man had surprised her.

He turned sharply on his heel and made to leave, seemingly imbued with the certainty that Hermione would follow him. Exhausted, she did, and as she grasped the cool iron handle of the door, she couldn't shake the thought that something wasn't right. Brilliant though she might have been, there was a mystery to the Potions Master that Hermione just couldn't unravel.

SSHGSSHGSSHG

Harry and Ron would have been shaking in her shoes, but Hermione felt only a strange peace. After a stressful summer, a long train ride wearing her too-tight mask of normalcy, and a session with her razor blade that had left her stinging, raw, and dizzy, Hermione enjoyed having someone else to follow. Being told what to do – and given no choice but to comply – was a welcome break.

Her ruminations were interrupted when Snape stopped sharply in front of her. Hermione very nearly collided with the man, and she let out a small squeak. _Get it together, Hermione_, she urged herself. _You're a prefect: act like it._

One curt word cut short her mental pep talk:

"In."

SSHGSSHGSSHG

It had been a common pastime in the Gryffindor Common Room to describe Severus Snape's private quarters. Guesses were many and varied. Ron maintained that, in his words, "the Overgrown Bat probably keeps vials of blood for supper," while Seamus always insisted that Snape had students' pickled organs in jars. Harry had suggested that his windows looked out into the depths of the Great Lake, lighting the room a sickly green. Ginny, in turn, thought that maybe their professor didn't even have light _at all_ – perhaps his few candles had long ago burned down to wax. Hermione had steadfastly refused to take part in these games, preferring instead to listen in amusement as she pored over her textbooks.

But even if Hermione had been the type to while away hours in front of the roaring fire, her wildest guesses never could have approximated the sight unfolding before her eyes. Snape's rooms were much like the man himself: unassuming yet proud. His furniture was well-made and simple, never ornate, and a small fireplace cast a warm glow over the sofa, adorned with a knit afghan. His walls were lined with books, and in spite of the predicament in which she found herself, Hermione had to fight back the itch to run her fingers over their spines.

"Sit, Miss Granger."

The thin fingers gestured toward the couch, and Hermione, baffled, sank onto it. She wove her fingers though the fringe of the afghan, purposefully avoiding the eyes of her teacher. A dull scraping sound announced the Potions Master's presence, and Hermione peered through her eyelashes to see that the man had removed his cloak and brought over a chair. Hitching his trousers, Severus Snape lowered himself down, sitting backwards. He crossed his arms over the top of the seat, and Hermione found herself staring at the fine black hair that traversed his forearms until his elbows, where the remainder was hidden by the cuffs of a white button-down shirt. She blushed.

"As I'm sure a student of your caliber is aware, this behavior is unacceptable. Professor Dumbledore will need to be notified at once, and in the interim, you'll be seen by Madam Pomfrey."

The terror must have been plain on her face, because something in his dark eyes softened.

"The headmaster and Madam Pomfrey will visit you here. I thought you might appreciate the…privacy."

To her intense shame, Hermione's eyes were filling with tears. "Please, sir. You can't. I – I'll do anything! I'll study harder, make better marks, I'll stay out of trouble, anything you want! I could brew potions for you, even, or bottle supplies! I'll scrub cauldrons, I'll –"

"Enough, Miss Granger." The smooth baritone of Snape's voice rumbled through her, and Hermione shivered. "While unwise, your earlier behavior is not cause for scholastic repercussion. The headmaster will merely want to assure that you get the care you need, and that your parents are aware of the matter."

"Professor Snape, _please_. My mother's long dead and my father, well, no one needs to tell him about this. What you saw before, that was the first time. I won't ever do it again, I promise."

The quirk of a dark eyebrow showed just how little merit he gave her previous statement. "Miss Granger, you mean to tell me that, were I to examine you right now, the marks you just made would be the only ones I'd find?"

Hermione nodded her head furiously. After all, it wasn't really a lie – she'd covered up her scars with makeup this morning. And maybe, if he believed her, he'd just leave her alone.

She had sprung up from the sofa, tugged her robes over her head, and toed off her shoes before Snape found his mouth.

"What in the name of Merlin are you doing, young lady?"

But Hermione merely moved her hands to her ribbed long-sleeved tee-shirt, peeling it over her mass of bushy curls and exposing her taut stomach and white lacy bra.

"Miss Granger, I will not have this in my rooms! Stop at once!"

Hermione undid the top button on her jeans and hissed in pain as they slid down her hips, catching the newly clotted blood. But she was a Gryffindor through and through, and Hermione only bent at the middle and rode out the pain, kicking off her jeans as she did so.

She looked up to find herself standing in front of her most-feared professor, clad in only her bra and panties. A warm gush of heat down her leg told her that her cuts had opened up again, and that they'd been deeper than she'd planned. Yet she didn't care – she looked at Snape with fire in her eyes and curses on her lips, and no sooner had she drawn herself up to tell the man just _where_ he could stick all of his threats to spill her secrets than the professor had leapt to his feet and encircled her wrist with his hand.

"Foolish child!" His movements were jerky, angry, but his touch was exceedingly gentle as he lowered her onto the sofa. "Can't you see you've hurt yourself badly? Lie still."

Suddenly feeling drained of all emotion and energy, Hermione sank into the cushions and shivered, closing her tired eyes. She didn't open them when she heard the click of her professor's shoes on the wood floor, and she kept them shuttered even as cool fingertips pressed a gauze pad onto her thigh.

After a few moments, Hermione dared to open her eyes a fraction, and she watched the professor work with interest, noting that his motions were sure and smooth. It was as if Hermione were one of his potions. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he wiped the blood from her calf, her kneecap, her thigh. Drowsily, Hermione blinked as Snape wiped the concealer from the scars twisting like vines along her hamstring and quadriceps. Was it her exhaustion, or did his broad shoulders really slump at the discovery of the silvery scratches?

He relaxed the pressure on her wounds slightly and peered beneath the gauze, now soaked through with blood. Snape's dexterous fingers swapped it for a clean pad, and dipped themselves like a ladle into a clean bowl of water, dribbling it over the slashes.

"Miss Granger? I'm going to clean your cuts now, and the solution will sting upon application."

"Isopropyl alcohol," she murmured. "And here I thought it'd be a potion."

"Now Miss Granger," he intoned, as his long fingers wrapped around hers and ordered her to squeeze, "surely you know that Muggle remedies are often just as effective – if not more so – than their wizardly counterparts."

Hermione writhed against the leather cushions, willing herself to maintain the last shreds of her composure and dignity in spite of the flames licking her thigh.

"There," he said, briskly moving to swipe a healing salve over the inflamed cuts. Task nearly complete, his swift hand darted for the final gauze pad, which he'd left nestled against Hermione's hip.

Neither professor nor student was prepared for the girl's reaction.

"No, please!" Hermione's hands had flown to cover herself, and Snape stared at her in shock.

"Miss Granger, even a twit so astoundingly daft as you," he sneered, "_must_ have understood that I meant you no harm."

The hollows under Hermione's eyes showed darkly in her too-pale alabaster skin.

Snape gingerly lifted the gauze pad that had been the cause of Hermione's fright. He held it towards her as one might handle a baby Acromantula, and, dropping her gaze, Hermione pressed it on.

"Professor, I'd like to go back to my tower now." She pushed herself into a sitting position and blinked owlishly up at him.

Snape regarded the sixteen-year-old somberly. Hermione stared back. She knew he'd seen her scars, knew he understood that this had not been her first clandestine encounter with the razor. But she hoped he'd want this to go away just as much as she did – and oh, how she wished tonight had been nothing more than a dream.

"Very well." He waved a languid hand towards the door.

Hermione could have cried in relief. She had been right. Everything was going to go back to normal, everything was –

"Oh, and Miss Granger? Report here tomorrow, after the evening meal. Do not disappoint me."

SSHGSSHGSSHG

There were one hundred and forty two staircases in Hogwarts, and Hermione could've sworn she'd trudged up every one on her way to the Gryffindor Common Room. With each step, Hermione worried over the enigma that was her Potions professor.

Yet it was not until she stood in front of the Fat Lady, her sides heaving as she gasped "Dilligrout," that Hermione realized what had been niggling her all evening. When Snape had confronted her, she'd been in the Room of Requirement, a room that no one else could have entered unless they'd made of it the same request. Hermione, of course, had wanted a room in which she could do "something she wasn't supposed to."

What forbidden thing had Severus Snape been planning?


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione wasn't sure how she'd gotten through the day. Falling asleep the night before had been surprisingly easy – she'd been more exhausted than she'd thought possible. But everything since? Well, Hermione was fairly certain that even Dolores Umbridge, ensconced in St. Mungo's and dreaming to the rhythm of centaur hoof beats, was having a better day.

She'd only picked at her breakfast, even though Hermione – having read several books on nutrition – knew she needed to regain the weight she'd lost over the summer. And her classes had been the stuff of nightmares. Unable to concentrate, Hermione had sat mutely in her seat, gagged and bound by the knowledge that her most hated professor knew her secret. Even McGonagall had been worried, Hermione knew. The kindly Head of House had peered questioningly over her spectacles, and all Hermione'd had to offer her was a small smile. A pitiful disguise, of course, but she hadn't felt up to anything better.

The worst of all was dinner, which had been even harder to sit through than one of Trelawney's ludicrous Divination lectures. Hermione nearly hadn't gone – she had no appetite, and even the smell of food upset her delicate stomach.

The courses dragged by, and with each tick of her watch's minute hand, Hermione imagined a new torture Snape might implement that evening. She spent 6:01 reliving the experience of disemboweling horned toads, 6:02 visualizing a night of writing lines with a blood quill, and 6:03 shivering at the thought that maybe her stern professor would take a page out of Filch's book and hang her up by her thumbs. By 6:15, Hermione was seriously considering skipping the appointment altogether.

But at 6:25, as she was swirling her fork through her mashed potatoes, an image of a whole different sort floated to the forefront of her mind: Snape's strong hands cupping her cheek, tilting her jaw, his thin lips moving towards hers, his velvet voice moaning her name.

Her fork clattered to her plate. It was time to visit the Potions Master.

SSHGSSHGSSHG

At sixteen years of age, Hermione was mature and responsible, only a few short months away from legal adulthood in the wizarding world. Yet standing before Professor Snape's wooden desk, she might have been five again, shifting her feet and waiting anxiously for her punishment.

"Sir? Was – was there something you needed?" Her voice trembled.

"I find your evasions tiresome, Miss Granger, and for your sake I suggest you dispense with them at once."

The girl lowered her eyes and nodded.

"Look at me, child. And I'll require a verbal answer."

"Yes, sir," Hermione breathed, forcing her gaze up to the spot just above Snape's dark eyes.

"Good girl."

His long fingers twitched around the ebony of his wand, and a plain chair skittered to her side.

"Have a seat, Miss Granger."

He waited impassively until the sixth year had done so, and then he fixed her with the full force of his gaze.

"I found last night to be very curious, Miss Granger, very curious indeed."

"Sir?"

"Your primary objection was – and do not deny it – that the headmaster might owl your father." Professor Snape stood, his full six feet towering over Hermione. "Explain."

"Of course that wasn't it! Of course you could've told Dad! I wasn't afraid about _that_, certainly not, it's only that I don't want to miss any classes, you see, and I'm taking my N.E.W.T.s next year, so really I –"

But she broke off in shock, for her professor had flicked his hand and summoned parchment and a quill. "Wonderful. How shall I begin?"

Hermione's eyes were wide and afraid.

"How about this? Mr. Granger, I am writing to discuss a most peculiar discovery I've made about your daughter, Hermione." As he spoke, his right hand scratched the words onto the yellowing parchment. "I recommend," he droned, his eyes darting up to hold hers, "that you pay a visit here, to the castle, where we may discuss this in person."

"_No_." Hermione's voice wavered, breaking slightly in the middle. "Sir, you _can't_."

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission, Miss Granger. Furthermore, you just told me yourself that –"

"I _lied_, okay, Professor?" She exhaled gustily. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Miss Granger. You will apologize at once."

Hermione murmured her apology, feeling a fierce burning in her throat. She swallowed the tears threatening to spill, and thought longingly of her four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower.

"You will cease this flippancy, and you will never interrupt me – or another professor – again. You'll find that the consequences will be…most severe."

"I really am sorry, sir."

He nodded. "You've put me in a difficult position, Miss Granger. Self-harm –" Snape watched her flinch as he spoke plainly "- is a serious problem and will not disappear on its own. Yet you are recalcitrant to obtaining help through the established protocol."

Hermione looked up at her professor, eyes shining.

He spoke quietly. "It seems I hold the whip hand here, Miss Granger. That said, I will present you with two choices. You will pick the one with which you wish to proceed. Once you have made your decision, it will stand and you cannot change your mind."

Hermione looked up curiously. That sounded like a challenge, and there was nothing the studious girl loved more than challenges.

"The first is obvious: I will summon Madam Pomfrey and the headmaster, who will send word to your father. You will comply with whatever course of treatment they suggest."

Snape had not finished his first sentence before Hermione began shaking her head.

"I'll take the other choice! Sir. The other one, please, sir."

The professor looked down his hooked nose at her, and Hermione thought she could detect scorn and a dash of dark humor in his eyes.

"Miss Granger, I have yet to tell you the _second_ option. Kindly allow me to proceed."

She blushed, chagrined.

"This option is fairly…irregular. I will keep news of your – indiscretion – between us, and in return, you will do as I say."

The intrigue was evident on Hermione's face. Surely this was the punishment phase. He'd keep her secret, and in exchange, she'd scrub all of his floors with a toothbrush – or her tongue, even. She'd do anything.

He cleared his throat and continued his speech. "You will – effective immediately – hand over your razor, and you will cease to harm yourself. You will eat three full meals in the Great Hall with your yearmates, you will report to my office every weekday evening after supper, and you will _never_ lie to me again."

Unfazed, Hermione blinked up at her professor.

He raised his eyebrows. "And if you violate any part of our agreement, I will punish you."

Hermione wrinkled her brow. "But sir, Hogwarts' regulations clearly state that house points can only be deducted and detention assigned for an action that violates school code."

"Obviously, Miss Granger. Your precious house points are safe from me."

Confused, Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Snape held up a long finger.

"Miss Granger, if you do not comply with the rules exactly as I've laid them out…you will receive a spanking."


	5. Chapter 5

Spanking. A _spanking_. As in, her Potions professor was going to _spank_ her if she didn't follow his rules? Ridiculous. She shook her head slightly, adjusting to this strange reality. Hermione had never even really been spanked before. Sure, her father had punished her as a child, but he hadn't been the spanking type. He had his routine down: at the slightest provocation, his left hand reached for her hair and dragged her to the wall while his right hand fumbled for his belt. And Merlin, those whippings had been painful, but Hermione had never felt _punished_, per se.

She thought the point of a punishment was to atone for one's actions and then, if her mates from primary school were to be believed, to feel better afterwards. But Hermione had never felt any remorse, because most of her "punishments" were unjustified. It was utterly embarrassing and not something she'd have admitted to anyone, but Hermione had often dreamt of being spanked. Not because she wanted the pain, she wasn't daft, but rather because she wanted someone to care. She wanted someone to be so furious that she'd done something wrong that he'd punish her for her own good, but calmly, never in anger, and then she wanted to be forgiven afterwards. Hugged, even.

But those had been childhood dreams, the pathetic fantasies of one who was small and desperate for love, and Hermione wasn't like that anymore. The thought of her most-feared professor actually spanking her brought only disbelief and panic.

"Sir?" She mouthed, hoping she'd heard him wrong.

Professor Snape did not speak, did not even breathe. His onyx eyes glittered ominously in the light.

Hermione knew there was only one choice to make, and she closed her eyes. "The – the second option, sir. Please."

"Very well." The baritone rumbled over her, and she shivered. "Do you have any questions, Miss Granger?"

_Will it hurt?_ The thought pushed against her lips, but Hermione didn't quite have the courage to voice it. "I….I, no, sir. No questions."

Snape settled back into his chair. "Then we begin today."

"Begin, sir?"

"Your appointments. I did order you to report to my office every night of the school week, did I not? Was I not clear?"

Flustered, Hermione stammered "You did, sir, I – I – I mean you were, sir."

The professor settled back into his chair and steepled his long fingers. "Very well. We shall start, fittingly, at the beginning. Tell me, Miss Granger, why do you harm yourself?"

Heat flooded her cheeks – Hermione had never heard her problem being spoken of so plainly. "I don't know, sir."

"You forget you are speaking with a master of Occlumency and Legilimency," the professor sneered. "I can hear the lie in your voice, girl, and I will not tolerate it. Try again."

Hermione shifted in her seat, verifying that her bottom was well-covered in case Professor Snape decided to make good on his threat. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I don't know how to answer you. I'm sorry, sir." Tears brimmed her brown eyes, but Hermione resolved not to let them fall.

To her surprise, Snape didn't yell. He didn't sneer, he didn't glare, and he certainly didn't punish her. If anything, his eyes softened, and when spoke, Hermione was sure she'd never been more astonished. "This is hard, Miss Granger. I understand that. You're a bright girl – I suppose you've been wondering why I've taken such a personal and unorthodox approach?"

Hermione nodded tentatively. _A bright girl_. Had he meant that?

"Come here." Snape shifted in his seat, drawing nearer to the light cast by a nearby lamp. Hermione crept over, and at his beckoning, moved closer still. And as Snape rolled up his sleeve, she gasped. Crossing the professor's upper arm were hundreds of scars, thick and jagged. They marred his skin completely; not an inch was left unblemished. She thought that they'd be invisible otherwise, if not for the lamp throwing shadows into their pitted depths.

Reflexively, Hermione gagged, and embarrassed herself thoroughly when she vomited. She was vaguely aware of a quiet voice uttering the cleaning incantation and conjuring a bowl and a cool flannel.

The spell passed a few moments later, and Hermione trusted herself to speak. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Perfectly alright. One cannot always control the involuntary reactions of one's body."

"No, I also meant, for, you know -" Hermione jerked her head at the professor's arm, covered once again by a black robe sleeve. She now understood the reason for their omnipresence.

Snape cleared his throat. "Your concern is unnecessary. I did not intend to garner sympathy, but rather to cultivate understanding. You have surmised the origin of my strong feelings about the subject, I assume?"

She nodded.

"Consequently, you shall put forth more of an effort in these sessions. If you truly do not know an answer, we will explore it together."

Hermione nodded again.

"Then Miss Granger, I ask you again: why do you cut yourself?"

"I suppose I like the feeling, sir."

He inclined his head. "Well done. How does it make you feel?"

Basking in the rare praise, Hermione spoke more easily. "Like I'm flying, sir. Or rather, like my soul is, but my body's on the ground. Like I've peeled off my dirty, tight skin and I'm above everything. When I'm cutting, I'm ethereal but also so human – seeing my blood splash across my skin reminds me that I can bleed, and that regardless of my imperfections, I'm still alive, still a person, I guess. Was that – was that what you meant?"

He rewarded her with another nod. "You use the word 'imperfections.' Of what, specifically, are you speaking?"

"I, just, well, _everything_, sir!"

"Miss Granger, you are unquestionably one of the most intelligent students Hogwarts has seen in decades. You are a prefect, seem to have a few friends, and have contributed much to the cause of the Light. Forgive me my confusion."

Hermione flinched as the professor's sarcasm cut through her. "People aren't always, you know, happy with me. So that's what I mean, I guess. The imperfections they see."

Snape titled his head to the side, stroking his cheekbone with an index finger. "Elaborate."

Her voice was small, cowed, nothing like the commanding tones she used in class. "Please don't make me."

Hermione waited a long minute, afraid to look at Snape. Then: "We will resume tomorrow. Be grateful for the reprieve, Miss Granger. They won't always come so readily."

SSHGSSHGSSHG

Although she was exhausted, Hermione made a beeline for the girls' lavatory upon leaving Snape's office. Here she emptied the contents of her stomach, washed out her mouth until she could hardly taste the acid, and locked the door. Sinking heavily to the floor, she lifted her robes and tugged down her jeans, itching to cut. Her razor was how she dealt with stress, and Hermione had never been more stressed here at Hogwarts – not when Voldemort was after the stone, not when a basilisk was roaming the halls, not even while Umbridge held court in Dumbledore's office.

But she wasn't allowed to cut. Professor Snape had been infuriatingly clear on that. So Hermione settled for second best – she positioned the pad of her thumb over the gauze and pushed hard. The pain came suddenly, so intense that she tightened her calf muscles and arched her neck, riding it out. When she looked down again, Hermione was pleased to see that the gauze was now soaked with crimson.

Back in her element, Gryffindor's prefect dampened a paper towel and cleaned the floor, disposing of the evidence. She straightened her robes and splashed water on her face, and then set off for the tower, never once thinking of Snape's reaction if he learned of what she'd done.


	6. Chapter 6

Re-opening her cuts the night before had provided the control Hermione needed to get through the day. She was dreading that evening's appointment with Professor Snape, especially since the last one had been so difficult. What if he asked her more about her "imperfections"? What would she say? She couldn't breathe a word about her troubles at home, but she wasn't allowed to lie either. Bollocks, this was awful.

SSHGSSHGSSHG

Classes had passed quickly, and Hermione had even felt up to joking with Harry and Ron during lunch. She'd eaten three balanced meals, just as Snape had asked, and she'd thought about what to say later. Hermione could admit to having lost her mother – to this day, even though Hermione had been very young when it happened, her mother's suicide still devastated her. For her own mother to have left her, well, Hermione must've had an imperfection large enough for Mr. Weasley to fly his car through.

Plan firmly in place, Hermione walked to the dungeons with her head held high. She drew herself up and knocked, and entered to find the professor waiting for her.

"Good evening, Miss Granger."

She returned the sentiment, meeting his gaze confidently. Her few remaining secrets could survive this, she was sure of it.

Snape spoke first. "Have you kept to the letter of our agreement?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. You ate well today, I assume?"

"Yes, sir."

"You've reported to my office again – excellent – and I assume you have not lied to me in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No, sir."

"And the final tenet of our covenant: you have not harmed yourself since I confiscated your razor blade, correct?"

Alarm bells sounded in Hermione's head. Professor Snape had used the word "harm," not "cut." She'd known she couldn't cut herself anymore, but surely what she'd done last night hadn't really counted as harm. She'd only used her fingers, for Merlin's sake. She drew a sharp breath, needing the oxygen to think. What if she admitted to it, apologized, and asked for another chance? It wasn't likely she'd get one, and besides, she kind of _had_ known it was wrong. On the other hand, Hermione Granger was not a liar. But she _really_ didn't want a spanking. Her stomach flipped at the thought.

"C-correct, sir," she stammered, hating herself even more strongly in that moment.

Snape flattened his lips. "You disappoint me, Miss Granger."

"Sir?"

"You just lied to me, after promising you would not." She opened her mouth, but he silenced her, saying "Don't deny it. I can read the deceit in your eyes."

Hermione bowed her head, ashamed and terrified. Why couldn't she just be normal for once? Then none of this ever would have happened.

"But your falsehood isn't the only reason for my displeasure, Miss Granger. Let's see it."

"See what, sir?" Her breath hitched in the middle.

"Your latest injury." He held out a hand for her robes, and wordlessly, she pulled them off and gave them to him. She'd worn a plaid skirt underneath instead of trousers, and it was a simple matter to flip it up to show him the bloody gauze.

He sucked in a breath. "Sit." The word was curt, a command.

She settled onto his couch, feeling the eerie prickling of déjà vu.

"May I?" She nodded, and he extended his hand to peel back the bandages. "You opened your cuts, I see." Hermione only blinked at him. There was no need to reply; he already knew the answer. Her fate was sealed. "You realize you've likely caused these to scar, don't you, girl? You want marks like mine, is that it?"

There was something hot and tight in her throat. "Why are you angry?" What she meant was, _Please don't be angry with me_. Hermione wasn't sure why, but the professor's disapproval felt worse than she'd expected.

"Why am I angry? Quite frankly, I'm angry because you hurt yourself again. You can't _do_ this, Miss Granger. This is not something to play around with." He worked as he talked, swiftly applying ointment and replacing the gauze and bandages.

Irked, she retorted "I'm not playing, professor. I wish I could stop, but I don't know how!"

"I do believe that's where I come in, Miss Granger." Having finished treating her, he stood and crossed to the armless chair next to the sofa, sitting down at once. "To me."

"Professor?"

"_Now_, Miss Granger. I take no pleasure in doing this, but I think a sore bottom will be a fine deterrent next time you think of hurting yourself."

Hermione's knees were weak. He couldn't. Surely he couldn't. She couldn't make her legs work, couldn't move towards Professor Snape.

"Your punishment just increased in its severity. If you continue to hesitate, I will double it."

Trembling, Hermione stumbled towards her professor.

"Over my lap, Miss Granger."

Hermione balked. She'd always shied away from human contact, and never having received a spanking before, she had no idea what to do.

Professor Snape seemed to understand. "Look at me, child." Hermione complied. "You've survived much worse than this, I promise you. It's not going to be easy, but if it was, it wouldn't serve its purpose, now would it?" Hermione only gazed at him, wide-eyed. "Trust me. It'll be painful, but after we're done, all will be forgiven."

Forgiveness. That was what Hermione wanted more than anything, what she'd wanted since childhood. Biting her lower lip, she murmured "Okay."

He extended his left hand, and Hermione took it. Even though she'd known it was coming, she still startled as the Potions Master pulled her down across his lap. He guided her gently into position: her stomach flat over his knees, her head dangling to the left of his body, and her bottom plump in the air.

"You may prefer to put your hands on the floor or grab the leg of the chair, Miss Granger. It will make the experience more comfortable for you."

Ha! He was worried about her_ comfort_ at a time like this_? If you want me to be comfortable, Professor, don't spank me_, she thought. Her snide ruminations were interrupted by the shock of her professor's long fingers tucking the hem of her skirt up into the waistband, exposing her panties. She frantically tried to remember which pair she was wearing. Perhaps her plain blue cotton ones? As long as it wasn't the ratty old pair with the little bears on them, she didn't care – although she did find herself wishing she was wearing something lacy…

And then she was no longer worried about her panties, because Snape's icy fingers had grasped her panties on either side of her hips and – oh Merlin, no – tugged them down. He was going to spank her bare. Hermione thought she might die of humiliation, assuming the spanking didn't kill her first. The dungeon air was cool on her skin, and she felt gooseflesh rising.

"Why are you receiving this spanking, Miss Granger?"

"Be-because I, I, I lied to you?"

"Partially correct. What greater indiscretion did you commit?"

It was like she was in class again. Hermione knew how to handle this kind of grilling, even if the answers were foreign.

"I, um, I hurt myself."

"Indeed. And why am I punishing you for those transgressions?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You've increased the severity of your spanking yet again, Miss Granger. Try a little harder."

Hermione felt like sobbing. She hadn't had a proper cry in years, though, and thought she might have forgotten how. Instead she bit her lip until she tasted blood and tried again. "Because you want me to stop hurting myself, sir? Because you don't want me to end up with scars like yours? And if I lie, it inhibits that effort?"

"Good girl."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She felt as though she should've just earned house points, but instead she was getting punished. Life was so unfair.

"Here are the rules: you may cry and holler as much as you want, but you are not to try to twist off my lap or cover your bottom with your hand. Doing so will result in additional strokes. Do you understand?"

She managed a muffled "yes, sir."

"Prepare yourself, Miss Granger."

Hermione reached for the rungs of the chair, clenched the muscles in her bottom almost involuntarily, and sent up a silent prayer to God or whoever was listening, asking to survive this, to be able to bear it with dignity. She'd barely finished when the first smack landed, and Hermione inhaled sharply. That had _hurt_.

Craning her head, Hermione saw a bright handprint on her milky skin. It stung and tingled, and she had to remind herself not to reach back to rub.

She contented herself with shifting her bottom slightly, and hadn't had time to feel relief before Snape's hand came down again, in exactly the same spot. Hermione jerked forward, momentarily breathless from the pain. The next three spanks came quickly, and Hermione struggled to catch her breath. She couldn't believe the professor's hand could be so hard. It was unnatural, it was horrible, it was – oh! Swat number six seared her skin, and Hermione couldn't help but let out a soft cry.

She turned to look again, and saw that her bottom was blotchy and pink. It looked awful. Professor Snape must have been wrapping up the spanking, right? Wrong.

Apparently that had only been the warm-up, because the smacks began to fall rapidly now. Snape was peppering her bottom, turning it a uniform pink, and the stinging was becoming unbearable. Hermione squirmed, tears pricking her eyes, but she willed them back. She would be strong, she would not complain, she would stay silent. If she took her spanking with grace and poise, maybe she would earn back some of the respect she'd lost.

But she abruptly forgot that promise, because she heard what must have been the two worst words in the English language: "Accio hairbrush."

"No, sir, ple – ah! Ouch! – please! Please – oh – please don't! I've, I've – ouch! – learned my lesson, sir, please stooooop!" But he did not stop, didn't even pause, and yet the next stroke that landed was much more painful. Hermione hissed and tightened her torso, reacting to the new implement.

The wooden hairbrush was wide and flat, and it covered a large portion of her bottom at once. It made a cracking sound as it connected, and in its wake, her bottom jiggled and trembled.

The pain was ferocious. Hermione squirmed something fierce, but Professor Snape was strong, and he wrapped one arm around her waist while the other continued to deliver the punishing blows.

Hermione wasn't sure how long it had been since Snape had begun to wield the hairbrush, but it felt like hours. Her stoicism had dissolved into begging. "I'll be gooooood! No moooore! Ouch, oh, please, I'm sooorryyyy! Ah, ah, I can't bear it! Pleeaase, stoooop! Ouch, ouch, ouch, I can't! Pleease , Professor, I'll be – OUCH! – I'll be a good little giiirl!"

She squirmed violently, thrashing, and was rewarded for her disobedience with three hard whacks to precisely the same spot. Lights flashed before her eyes, and all Hermione could think of was the bubbly, burning pain. It felt she was sitting on a hot cauldron, and a quick glimpse behind her revealed that her bottom was a deep, smoldering red.

When Professor Snape paused for a moment, Hermione shook with relief. Yet it was short-lived: the professor raised his right knee higher, dropping his left slightly, and adjusted Hermione's position. Hermione could feel the skin on her bottom stretch tightly with the new angle, and that alone was enough to make her whimper.

For the first time since he'd begun the spanking, Snape spoke. "Do you know how terrified I was when I found you in the Room of Requirement?" He accompanied these words with a sharp crack of the hairbrush to the top of Hermione's left thigh, right at the crease where it met her bottom, and she shrieked.

He seemed to accept that Hermione was past the point where she could form words, because he continued. "I've been watching you carefully since your Sorting, Miss Granger. You are destined for great things, it is true." The hairbrush landed again, on the right side this time. "And I – will – not – watch – you – throw – that – away." He swung the brush in time with each word, and Hermione bucked.

It was hard to say which was redder now, her face or her bottom, but still Hermione had not cried. She had moved past caring – all of her energy was now concentrated on the raging inferno that was her bottom. Snape was targeting the part of her bottom that she sat on, essentially ensuring she'd be standing for the next day's classes.

"I don't admit this easily, but I've come to care for you over the years, Miss Granger." As he spoke, the brush beat its fiery tempo: three strokes on the left, three on the right. "I want you to get better, to overcome this. Not in the fifteen years it took me, but _now_. Do you think you can do that?"

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione recognized the professor's words. Professor Snape cared about her. He wanted her to succeed in life, enough so that he was willing to punish her. All the professor had wanted to do was help her, and Hermione had undermined that by disobeying him and then lying about it. He was a smart man, and he'd probably realized she wasn't worth his time or esteem. Without even knowing it, Hermione had found what she'd always wanted – someone to care for her – and lost it all in one fell swoop. She deserved the suffering. Maybe the spanking would kill her after all. Hermione hoped it did.

"Do you think you can do it, Miss Granger?" Her bottom was a solid maroon now, with her sit-spots purpling by the minute.

"I'm soooory! I'm – I'm sorry I'm not what you wanted!" Professor Snape brought the hairbrush down more sharply, and Hermione squealed.

"What did you say, girl?"

"You're – OH! – giving up on me! Ah! Oh, ouuuuuch!"

"Idiot child. I am doing no such thing. I don't care for you any less because you made a bad decision. We'll get through it together, Miss Granger, understand?"

And at that, Hermione burst into tears. She began to sob as she hadn't in years, her body shaking with the force of it.

Professor Snape immediately dropped the brush and gathered her to him, scooping Hermione up into his arms as though she were feather-light. He settled onto the sofa, Hermione's tears soaking the color of his shirt, her arms clasped around his neck. Her bottom glowed, but she was crying too hard to care.

Snape tried to comfort her, but being a Death Eater, he didn't have much experience. Hermione only registered pain and relief. Relief that her spanking was over, relief that she'd been forgiven, and relief that finally, for the first time since her mother died, someone was holding her.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she stayed nestled in Snape's protective embrace, but she was still weeping softly when she felt a gentle touch on her bottom. Snape had summoned cooling cream and was spreading it on tenderly, lessening the sting. Hermione was afraid to sit up. She was still marveling at the innocent touch of another human being, and she didn't want it to end.

"There now, Miss Granger." With her ear pressed to his chest, Hermione could hear the rumbling of his voice on the inside, too. "It's all over, and as promised, you are forgiven." When still she didn't uncurl herself, Snape extended a long finger and tipped her chin up.

He smiled slightly. With her rumpled hair, red-rimmed eyes, flushed skin, and runny nose, Hermione was the very picture of a well-spanked little girl. Snape brought the pads of his thumbs to her cheeks and wiped away her tears. Hermione made to duck her head again, but Snape resumed the pressure on her chin.

When she spoke, her voice was raspy. "I'm sorry, Professor Snape. I'm sorry you had to spank me." Her lower lip trembled, and he released her chin, allowing her to burrow herself out of sight again.

"That hurt, sir," drifted up, and Snape nearly chuckled.

"It was supposed to, child. You'll be quite sore tomorrow, but before long this punishment will be only a memory."

Hermione rather doubted that. Her bottom throbbed in time to her heartbeat, and her eyes were hot. Yet in spite of her – fairly severe – discomfort, Hermione felt curiously safe. That was the last thing on her mind as she fell into an easy sleep in Professor Snape's arms: _nothing can hurt me here_.


End file.
